The Olympian
By Stephen M. Tomic
She was a physical specimen, so gifted and so fast that some speculated scientists had made her in a lab. She never juiced or cheated, but she had feet like flippers and muscular shoulders the size of small boulders. Her childhood dream was to become an Olympic champion someday.
Nothing would stand in her way. She begged her parents to spend hours at the community pool. There, she swam countless laps, only exiting once her skin had wrinkled. One day, she caught the eye of a coach who took it upon himself to train her.
Thus began the strict regimen of diet and training. She had few friends as a consequence. But, at least her parents cheered her on at every swim meet, which she’d inevitably win. She loved doing the backstroke the best. Distance was irrelevant. Records fell each time she entered the water. She collected state and regional medals and trophies like other kids her age collected Pokémon.
She developed a maturity beyond her years and always remembered to hug the person in second place. But she still remembered to kiss the tattooed “W” on the inside of her wrist because she always knew what mattered most.
Before every race and championship, she warmed up and stretched, then listened to “The Blue Danube” on her iPhone. She hired a private tutor to teach her English so she could trash talk her greatest rival. Eventually, she qualified for the Olympics at the tender age of 16. Part of her dream had come true.
She zoomed through the 5000-meter heats, setting a blistering pace that was more than a minute faster than the WR until she decided to slow down on the last lap. She adored the noise of the crowds that cheered as she cut through the water like a fish to touch the wall first. She felt unstoppable. Her nation had pinned their gold medal hopes on her; there was just one more race to win.
She awoke the following morning on the bathroom floor wearing a latex swim cap on her head. A sympathetic but lazy teammate stopped holding her long dark hair after she had started vomiting. A rainbow of puke splashed against the wall in her room in the Olympic village. The race was mere hours away. Her arms and legs felt like cotton, and her stomach did a stick-and-weave routine that left her reeling.
The cause of her illness was unknown. Some thought it was due to the flu, or food poisoning, or a bad case of the butterflies. Either way, she would persevere.
She kissed the tattoo on the inside of her wrist and stepped onto the starting block. Fifty meters of bright blue water lay in front of her. She adjusted her goggles. She stared up at the clock marked 0:00:000 and then down at the undulating water, which made her stomach turn. Moments before the starting pistol fired, she held back the bile rising in her throat, gasped for breath and dove into the water.
She quickly established a massive lead. Gradually, though, her superhuman pace faded while the rest of the field gained time. She could sense her lead shrinking but refused to give in. She had come too far. Upon hitting the final turn, she began to see hundreds of tiny black stars. During those last few meters, she gave one last kick, stretched her right arm forward, like she’d done thousands of times before, but this time hyperextending the intercostal muscles in her ribcage before reaching the slick blue tile. She removed her goggles and squinted up at the scoreboard. Fourth place. She vomited once more.
